


Cold Hands, Warmed Heart

by braedymck



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Asexual Character, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Massage, Mutual Pining, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pining, Set in Season 3, Trauma, actually forget feelings, this is just jon's quest for warmth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 16:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30058170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braedymck/pseuds/braedymck
Summary: Jon picks up the pieces of himself, broken and shattered by trauma and fear, off the ground of the Archives after barely escaping the circus. Thankfully, he doesn't have to pick them up alone.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 14
Kudos: 104





	Cold Hands, Warmed Heart

**Author's Note:**

> **EDITTED 3/16 So apparently I posted this in plain HTML instead of ~rich text~ the first time, so it erased all of my very important italics. Unacceptable. Reposted with appropriate occasional slanted font.**
> 
> Your girl is back with yet another hand-holding, hand-massage, non-sexual intimacy fic because what else am I supposed to do when we're only two episodes from the final and I just want my boys to be happy
> 
> This one is set in season 3, immediately after MAG 101. This fic was VERY inspired by Janekfan's "Catharsis" (found here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27165962) which takes a look at how Jon had to deal with the actual trauma of being kidnapped and tortured by the circus. It's one of those fics where after you read it, you somehow understand the canon a little bit better? I mean... The canon never showed Jon grieving from legit torture but like, damn, he probably did. Or, at least, he should've... It's just a really eye-opening (pun intended) fic and you should go read it. 
> 
> Lots of content warnings for this one, actually! Please read below:
> 
> -CONTENT WARNINGS:-  
> Explicit examples of past traumas, including:  
> -Being bound  
> -Being force fed  
> -Non-consensual removal of clothing  
> -Non-consensual touching of skin  
> Thoughts of death/dying  
> Desire for death/dying  
> Mentioned feelings of nausea/vomiting  
> Feelings of hopelessness  
> Crying/sobbing out of fear
> 
> Let me know if I missed any, this is the first time I've needed to include some CWs so I might have overlooked something.
> 
> I know that sounds like a lot, but I swear it's mostly fluff. Like 74% fluff. And lots of Jon-flavored-denial-on-thin-ice because that's the best season 3 dynamic.
> 
> And Martin is the perfect trauma-informed caregiver.
> 
> Okay, that's a long enough intro.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

The mustard yellow door cracked open slowly with a grating sound of old iron hinges squealing like uncanny laughter, and the Archivist stumbled out. As his bad leg stepped clumsily onto the ground, both of his knees buckled and he collapsed onto the floor of the archives with a painful _thud_. He faintly heard the click of the door shutting behind him underneath the sound of his heavy, exhausted breaths. 

And then the mustard yellow door in the archives once again never existed. 

And he was alone.

Jon tried to scramble to his feet, aware of his compromising vulnerability sprawled out helplessly on the ground, but his limbs were made of lead. Waves of aching pain rolled down his muscles, and he choked out a small whimper. Instead, he panickedly surveyed his surroundings.

The old carpet beneath him provided no cushion to his frail body. It was hard and cold as stone, and the fibers were sharp against his face. It smelled of both acrid disinfectant and rancid grime: the weekly carpet cleanings Elias ordered were no match for the stench Jane Prentiss and her hoard left behind over a year ago.

It was dark. Not only were the lights in the archives out, but as were the lights in the offices surrounding. Was it a weekend, or just very late at night? Jon had no concept of time anymore. He wasn’t ungrateful for the darkness, however; he was kept in the darkness for so long that he wasn’t sure how he would fare against the light. He closed his eyes.

It was so quiet in the archives. No hum from the computers or from the AC, no ticking clocks. No footsteps down the hall or hushed chatter from the breakroom. Just still air. Jon almost wondered if maybe he did finally just die, and Hell was a disappointing, smelly, dark void. But the searing pain in his burned hand as the carpet scraped against a reopened wound sent him a clear message that he was not, in fact, that lucky.

With every last ounce of effort he had in his torn, beaten body, he heaved himself upright to lean heavily against one of the desks. He tried to hug his legs in close in a desperate attempt at comfort, but the pain was paralyzing. And more than that, he felt a distinct repulsion at the feeling of anything touching his skin.

His eyes flew open as the last month(s?) of his life flashed before him. Bound and gagged. Tied to a stiff, splintering chair. Fading in and out of sleep; dragged from the nightmares of his dreams to the nightmares of reality. Staring at the checkerboard floor for hours -- or was it days? -- unable to form coherent thoughts of anything other than misery. Empty-eyed stares from the haunting wax works boring into him. The occasional meal of salty broth force-fed to him, making his chin oily-slick as it dribbled down from his lips. Being supervised when he was allowed to toilet. Cold, rigid, plastic hands constantly taking his clothes on and off, smearing that slimy, medicinal-smelling lotion _everywhere_ on his skin, _everywhere_ \--

The sound of his own sobs broke his trance. 

He tried to hold himself, to wipe away his tears which turned icy on his cold face, but his entire body revolted against any contact. His arms fell helplessly to the ground. He turned his face into the desk and sobbed harder.

When was the last time he felt safe? He couldn’t remember. Certainly not for however long he was at the mercy of the circus. Definitely not even in Michae-- _Helen’s_ corridors. Was he safe at Georgie’s? No, Nikola found her way into that space easily enough... And when he left Georgie’s, he was met with an unfriendly handshake and new-found fear of falling. And before that? A constant fear of being watched in the archives, the fear of going back to his flat when the doors to the institute were lined with worms -- god, _Jane Prentiss_...

When he was a kid? Jon searched his memories hysterically to find anything of comfort. Grandmother’s home cooking, presented with a forced smile that hid disdain. Sitting out in the park reading a new favorite book--

_IT IS POLITE TO KNOCK--_

Jon screamed and slammed his head against the desk, a sharp sound of cracking wood. The throbbing pain was almost comforting. At least it was familiar.

Suddenly, a light down the hall flicked on. 

And Jon went very still.

One light, and then another, growing closer. Soft, slow footsteps padded toward him. He heard his heart thundering loudly in his aching ribcage, instantly aware that he was in no condition to fight or flee. Just the thought of trying to push himself behind the desk was enough to make him almost vomit in pain. All he could do was watch with panicked eyes as a shadow appeared in the hallway.

The shadow was large, looming. It crept as quietly as a body that big could, and it paused right before the door into the archives. Jon heard the rattle of a hand wrapping around the door handle, and he made a silent prayer that Hell wasn’t quite so smelly.

The door creaked open a sliver.

“...Jon?”

_Martin?_

Jon tried to answer, but the only sound that escaped his lips was a painful, but incredibly relieved, sigh.

Martin’s face peered out from behind the door. His round cheeks were ghostly pale, even in the shadow, and his soft blue eyes were wide with fear behind his crooked, circular glasses. His big-knuckled hand adjusted them properly to his face as squinted into the room, trying to see in the dark. His eyes passed over Jon twice before they recognized him.

“ _Jon!”_ He flung the door open immediately, and it ricocheted off the wall with a loud _smack!_ Martin was already through the doorway, rushing over to him, arms reaching toward him, and Jon pitched backward with strength he did not know he had.

“ _Don’t!”_ Jon screamed, barely escaping Martin’s grasp. His efforts caught up to him, and he full-body cringed in agony, finding himself once again on the unforgiving, cold floor. “ _Don’t... Don’t touch me... Please...”_

Martin leaped backward, raising his hands up with surrender. The look on his face was nothing short of mortification.

Jon felt an immediate pang of guilt, as he had pulled that expression out of Martin far too many times in his life, but he had no energy to apologize. He just stared at the ugly, stained carpet, resigned.

He could feel Martin standing above him, looking down at him with horror and confusion and concern, which Jon supposed he should be used to as well, by now. He heard a gentle clicking, which he knew to be Martin’s tell-tale sign of worry: Martin always picked at his permanently-chipped nailpolish when he was anxious. And sure enough, Jon saw specks of emerald green flitter to the ground in front of him. The clicks were arhythmic and panicked, and it used to bug the hell out of Jon, but now it was... A familiar sound. One that definitely meant no harm to him. One that was usually accompanied with--

“I’ll go get you some tea.”

And Martin quickly strode out of the room, a microscopic train of emerald behind him.

Jon braved a peek at his surroundings again. The door was left open -- should he be worried about that? -- and a thin yellow ray of light from the hall bisected the room, turning the darkness into an ugly but familiar brown-green. The archives were as he remembered: his assistants’ desks were cluttered with files and sticky notes, the shelves of the archives were messy and overflowing with boxes and bins of more files and more sticky notes, and his office was locked and dark. He still smelled the disinfectant and grime, but he also smelled old paper and ink. There were no mustard yellow doors. There were no wax works. No calliope music, no haunted casket singing, no incessant laughter...

A shadow moved in front of the light again as Martin cautiously re-entered the room, holding two steaming mugs.

“...Jon? I’d like to come sit beside you, and I promise I won’t touch you,” Martin said in that quiet voice of his. He made no effort to move. He stood with his shoulders hunched (as he always does when he feels like he’s taking up too much space), with his golden-orange hair messy on one side. He wore a thin, rumpled pale yellow T-shirt and plaid blue pants that Jon could only assume were pyjamas (ah, middle of the night, then), and although he looked terrified and worried and nervous, he also looked... Oddly cozy. Like he just woke up. 

Which, he probably did -- Martin hadn’t gone back to his flat, even long after Prentiss. He said that he hated the archives, but he felt safer here. That at least he knew someone could find him here.

Jon then realized that Martin was waiting. Waiting for him? What had he asked? ...Oh, right. He was waiting for permission. To come sit beside Jon. Jon gave a small nod, cheek scraping uncomfortably against the carpet.

Martin padded gently over to him, his mis-matched striped and polka dot socks scuffing quietly on the floor so Jon could hear where he was. About a foot away, Martin sat down on the floor next to him, leaning up against the desk, tucking his legs into criss-crosses. He placed Jon’s favorite, bowl-shaped white mug within reach. 

“Careful, it’s hot. Give it some time too cool off.”

Jon took in a deep inhale, and the luxurious scent of honey-sweetened earl grey tea filled his lungs. He exhaled hastily so he could take in another deep breath of it. He could almost taste the sweetness on his lips.

“Are you able to sit up?”

Jon surveyed his body. Yep, still in a lot of pain. But something about the smell of the tea, it was... A nice distraction.

“... _I can try,_ ” He mustered, voice graveley. He steadied his hands on the ground, strategizing the quickest way to push himself up off the floor and over to the desk. He let out a very long exhale, focused on the steaming tea beside him, took in a lungful of that floral sweetness--

And managed to upright himself. He collapsed weakly into the desk beside Martin, body screaming as his limbs fell heavily in whatever direction they found first. His legs were bent and sticking out at odd angles beneath him, his one arm flopped behind him as the other folded across his lap. He had no energy to get himself comfortable. He wasn’t even sure what comfortable was anymore. He panted as his head knocked gently onto the wood. 

Martin picked up his mug to move it closer, still remaining a foot apart. Jon knew he had no strength to lift the heavy ceramic, but the scent washed over him again. That was good enough.

Jon leaned on his side, facing Martin, whose back was pressed against the desk. Martin looked forward, taking a sip from his own mug, the leaf green one with the daisy on the side. Jon could see the curl of steam catch the light from the hallway. It swirled up from the mug and around Martin’s own ginger curls before dissipating into the air. There was something serene about it, despite it all. Jon felt his breaths become longer.

Martin made no sudden movements. He just occasionally sipped his tea, holding his mug in the way that Jon knew only Martin did: he always held it with two hands cupped around the base, and always with his left pointer finger through the hole of the handle. It oddly reminded Jon of the way one would hold an open locket in their palms. He heard the word _cherish_ echo behind his thoughts. Jon allowed himself to gaze unabashedly at Martin, who, lit by the yellow light of the hallway, was the most peaceful thing Jon had seen in... In? In what felt like a very long time. It was nice. Jon had something nice to look at, for once. He focused on nothing else.

Eventually, Martin finished his tea, and he set the mug behind him. With a lack of something to do with his hands, he resumed picking at his fingernails, more emerald green dusting the floor. His bushy, ginger-brown brows furrowed a bit and his lips drew into a tight line. Jon felt a vague negative feeling about the sight.

“Jon?” Martin started quietly, as he usually does. His voice was high-pitched and airy. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I’d like to know what happened to you.”

Huh. Unexpected choice of words. Jon was well prepared for a “ _What did you do?”, “Where have you been?”, “Why did you leave?”_ ... Instead, he felt a strange sort of comfort. Things had _happened_ to him, right? Sure, some things were his fault, or maybe the result of poor choices, but there were also things that just _happened_ to him, right? Like maybe he didn’t deserve it _all_?

Jon closed his eyes against the prickling tears that gathered at the corners. A lot, actually. _A_ _lot happened to him._ He took in a shaky breath, armoring himself with the calming earl grey, and forced himself to meet Martin’s gaze. There was such concern in those pale, blue eyes. And Jon told him everything.

It was so painful to relive.

He broke down almost immediately, bumbling through his words as he told Martin every horrible thing that the circus did to him. His nose began to run and he became a mess of tears and snot and he couldn’t bring himself to wipe any of it away because he couldn’t stand the pressure on his skin and he told Martin how alone he was and how scared he was and he told him how he thought he was going to die and he told him how he wished he had--

  
  


“ _Jon,_ ” Martin interrupted him, his round chin quivering despite clear efforts to make it not. There was such sincerity in his glassy eyes. “I am... I am so sorry...”

Jon heaved a stuttering sigh, “It wasn’t your--”

“Jon, I can’t imagine what that must be like. To feel completely torn from your sense of safety in your own body.”

Yes, that... That was exactly what it felt like.

“A-and right now, I’m going to do everything in my power to make you feel safe again. To make you feel comfortable.”

Martin reached up on the top of the desk behind him, and suddenly a box appeared in front of Jon. Martin was holding out a small, green box of tissues for him. Martin was quite obviously desperately trying not to cry, but he had an odd determination in the lines of his face that Jon had never seen.

“I mean it when I say you’re safe with me. Right here. Right now. I’m not going anywhere, as long as you don’t want me to.”

“I--” Jon was stunned, glancing back and forth between the little green box and Martin’s firm gaze. He could feel a harsh rejection on the tip of his tongue, daring to snake between his lips into condescending words, as he was wont to do when offered help. But... He shut his mouth before anything slips out. He considered that, just this once, in this particular state of catastrophe, maybe he might actually benefit from some help. He silently cursed himself.

“We’re starting with getting your sense of control back.” He shook the box twice, ushering Jon to take one. It made a soft shuffling sound.

Jon stared at the box. He... He couldn’t stand to feel the tissues on his face. Too many things had been on his face recently, and they’d all been so abhorrent and surely these were going to feel the same and he should just make run for it but he couldn't run so he’ll just keep crying instead and his whole face was so unpleasantly soaked--

“Jon, you’re in charge of the tissues.”

Jon’s thoughts came grinding to a halt. He gave a puzzled look to Martin.

“You get to decide how the tissues touch your skin. They won’t move unless you want them to, and they’ll only go where you want them to go.”

Jon hesitantly looked at the soft cream-colored paper sticking out of the slit in the cellophane; it flopped over itself gently. He felt a trickle of snot reach the corner of his mouth, and he decided to maybe give it a try.

With great effort from his unburned hand, he cautiously placed the tissue between his thumb and first finger, and he gave it a gentle rub. It was, in fact, quite soft, and Martin was right: it moved how he wanted it to. It didn’t reach out and grab him. It didn’t hurt him. He plucked the tissue from the box with a small sound of ruffling paper, and held it: it was feather-light and motionless in his still hand. He bunched it into a ball, and it gave with ease.

Gingerly, he reached the tissue up to the corner of his mouth and breathed in sharply as it touched his skin. It felt... Okay. Not uncomfortable. Obviously not painful. Less painful than moving his sore arm, certainly. It was actually... It was fine. He dabbed the tissue again beneath his nose, quick motions as to not let it linger on his skin. It smelled faintly of the vapor rub he used to use as a child that helped him sleep. Eventually, he grabbed a second and dabbed his cheeks. 

“There,” Martin breathed with a small smile once Jon built up the courage to wipe the tissue across his chin. Jon took another for good measure and blew his nose, trying not to mind the strain in his lungs. “You’re _safe_ here, Jon -- right now, you are. You have control over what happens to you.” Martin set the box down between them, still in arms reach if Jon wanted another. 

He mulled over Martin’s words, and... Did he feel in control? Perhaps a bit. Certainly more than before. He sniffled, feeling the cool air on his freshly dried face. There was nothing to do about the congestion in his sinuses or the heaviness of his eyelids, but he wasn’t coated in thick, salty snot anymore. And he had tissues if he needed them. Perhaps... 

Jon mentally scanned over his body again. God, he was so sore. He experimentally tried to pull his knees close to his chest: they ached and protested, but they did move. Like lifting iron, he heaved them together and tucked his feet close to his bottom, soles touching the ground for the first time. He let out another small whimper at the effort as he carefully wrapped his arms around his legs, not letting his hands glide for too long over his exposed skin. He managed to hold himself, silently considering that he was, in fact, definitely in control of his own movement. His hands rested on his arms exactly where he wanted them to. It was okay. It was his own hands, moving on his own accord. He wasn’t going to hurt himself. 

Maybe not intentionally, however, because mother of _god_ his hands were so cold. 

Every part of him was cold, actually. Even his eyes, which usually became hot and inflamed when he cried, felt unpleasantly cool. He shivered violently as he looked down to see what he was wearing: a baggy old grey T-shirt that Georgie had lent him and some thin, ill-fitting, black sweatpants. No wonder. He wanted to rub his arms for warmth, but he wasn’t sure he was ready for that yet. So he just grabbed himself tighter.

He was vaguely aware of Martin’s gaze on him as he adjusted his body, but when he caught Martin’s eye as buried his head in his knees, his stomach turned inside out with an awful, frigid pang. Something in the way Martin looked at him... He looked absolutely heartbroken. There was such profound sadness in his too-wide blue eyes, in his slumped shoulders, in the almost certainly painful slouch in his spine. Even his yellow and blue pyjamas seemed to hang limply off his curves, dulled in color. 

“... _Sorry,”_ Jon sighed, not sure what for. He just didn’t want to see Martin look like that. Martin didn’t deserve to look like that.

Martin steeled his face again, willing determination back into his eyes. “You have nothing to apologize for, Jon.”

Jon gave no response.

“But, _Jesus_ , you look freezing. D’you want me to get you a blanket?”

Jon shuddered at the thought of something wrapping around him, trapping him underneath its weight, catching up his feet until he couldn’t move beneath it--

“ _Okay,_ okay, no blanket.” Martin started to pick his nail polish again, small clicks interrupting the quiet. “How about your tea?”

Jon eyed the white mug beside him. He had grown used to the scent of it by now, hardly smelling it at all. Martin touched the side of it with the back of his freckled hand.

“Hm. Bit cold by now.”

Jon felt another shiver like lightning down his spine; he clenched his teeth tightly so they wouldn’t chatter. 

Martin dropped his hands in his lap, letting out a long sigh. “Tell me what I can do for you, Jon.”

He wasn’t quick enough to stop the protests this time. “You don’t... It’s fine, Martin--”

“No, it’s really not,” He pursued his lips at the side of his mouth, taking a sharp inhale. “You... You’ve been _traumatized_ , Jon. And yes, you’re safe now and I won’t let anything hurt you, b-but... But you need _comfort,_ or something-- _God_ , you look so miserable...” His voice wavered and choked on the last word, and he bit his bottom lip. His fingers drummed on his leg, a soft pattering sound, as he took a steadying breath. “You _need_ comfort. Tell me how I can help.”

Jon was at a loss. He should have known better than to argue with Martin over his own health: contrary to popular belief, Martin was actually the stubbornest out of all of them. He had already accepted his help this far, he might as well ride the wave to shore. He just... He had mixed feelings about it. About Martin. Regardless, Jon was never good at taking care of himself, how was he to know what he needed? 

“I... I don’t know, I’m...” Jon whispered, voice muffled by his knees. He pulled them in tighter, preserving the warmth from his breath on the thin fabric. “I’m.. I’m cold. And... In pain... My hand--” His burn was aching from the forceful contact on his arm. The coldness of his tricep offered no relief from the sting of ill-wrapped bandages.

“Okay. Okay. I can work with this. Jon, would it be okay if I rewrapped your burn?”

“Oh, I don’t know--”

“I promise that I’ll tell you every move I’m going to make before I make it. No-- I’ll _ask_ you if I can make it.”

“Well, I--”

“I’ll wear gloves it you want me to--”

“ _NO GLOVES_.”

“-- _Okay_ , alright. That’s fine. No gloves. But you’ll let me wrap your hand?”

Jon inhaled sharply and looked at his burn. It really did hurt. It was healing horribly, likely thanks to how he’d cared for it-- or rather, the _lack_ of care he’d given to it. Maybe it would be nice to have it bandaged properly. It might even ache less. Jon felt his shoulders slump with resignation. He sighed and looked back to Martin, who was ever patiently awaiting his response with bright eyes.

“...Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“And it’s alright if my hand touches yours?”

“...It’s okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Right. Will you be fine if I run to get my first aid kit? It won’t take me second.”

Jon surveyed the room. Still just as quiet as it was before...

“...Don’t take too long.”

“Not a second!” Martin dashed off at a surprising speed out of the archives, mis-matched socks the last thing Jon saw before Martin turned the corner of the doorway. Jon took another deep breath and looked around.

The archives were still the same. No new doors, no hidden figures. The ceiling still had that horribly garish moulding, the walls still had the ugly, dark stains. He looked over to his abandoned mug again and forced himself to smell the honeyed tea. 

Jogging footsteps approached sooner than Jon anticipated, and Martin came barreling back into the archives with an armful of supplies and a sweat on his brow. Slightly out of breath, he collapsed down next to Jon where he had sat before, but he sat facing toward Jon with one leg tucked in, half-butterfly, and one leg stretched out in a V. He dumped his supplies in front of him: a grey basin filled a quarter of the way with water, a white washcloth, and a first aid kit that Jon was sure was probably from the 80s. It was scratched and old and undoubtedly used to be white, and it clinked as he placed it on the ground, years of use wearing down the metal lid to fit too loosely. It squealed a bit as he opened it and the lid flopped limply onto the carpet, clearly no longer able to support itself upright. To no one’s surprise, the inside was incredibly well organized. Martin’s big but nimble fingers found exactly what he needed quickly as he began to explain the procedure.

“So you’ll need to take the old bandages off first, obviously, and honestly, we can just discard those because they look like they’ve been through Hell and back anyway,” If Jon had more energy to spare, he would offer a sardonic chuckle at the sheer underestimation of that statement. “I’ve got a basin here with some warm water and a gentle wash cloth; you can wipe off the debris before we apply the antibiotic ointment--”

Martin looked up from his work, maybe seeing if Jon was listening. Admittedly, he was not. He was slowly peeling back the old bandages and staring at his burned hand, tears already daring to spill over his lashes again, making small flexing movements with his fingers and wincing in the pain it caused. His hand was such a hideous sight to him: bulbous blisters in small clusters, nasty scars from popped blisters that never got to heal properly, flaking, dry skin patches, a deep, angry red discoloration across his palm. When the last of the old bandage was stripped from his skin, both of his arms fell back down toward his side with exhaustion.

“ _I can’t_ ...” Jon said under his breath. “ _So much... Pain...”_

Jon glanced at Martin’s face. For barely an instant, he thought he saw that heartbroken look behind his eyes again, but the look Martin gave him now was one with a stubborn, scrunched brow and lips in a firm line. Resolve. 

“Can I do it for you, then?”

Jon looked hesitantly down at his burn, already in so much pain from removing the bandages. Though, he reckoned, it would probably get worse if it weren’t bandaged back up soon. And his arms couldn’t handle a third round of prolonged, precise movements...

He nodded once.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll take your hand with one of mine. I’ll hold you by the tops of your fingers and I’ll lead your hand into the warm water. Is that alright?”

Jon nodded again.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

Martin did exactly as he said. Very slowly, he reached and grabbed hold of Jon’s fingertips with his own, and he paused. 

“This is alright?”

Jon was suddenly stupefied with how _warm_ Martin’s hand was. Even just on his fingertips, Martin radiated heat behind his plush fingers. His hands were so large that they dwarfed Jon’s, and Jon could feel that heat emanate all the way to his wrist. Jon let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Jon?”

“Hm? Yes... Sorry _,”_ He took another deep breath, relishing in the warmth that was almost scalding compared to his bitterly cold fingers.

“I’ll lower your hand into the water slowly. If it hurts or you want it out of the water, you’ll tell me and I’ll pull is out. Is that okay?”

“Yes.”

Just as he said, Jon’s hand was gently submerged into the gray basin, hardly making any sound at all. The water, surprisingly, was not as warm as Martin’s hand. 

The lukewarm water gradually enveloped his whole scar, though Jon could feel Martin watching him carefully for any sudden reason to take his hand back out. The water was soothing and silky against his burn, soft in the way that satin glides over the skin, or certain types of thin creams or _lotions_ \--

Jon’s hand was abruptly removed from the water. Jon blinked up at Martin.

“We can put it back in the water when you’re ready. If you’re ready.”

Jon watched as his hand rained droplets of cooling water back into the basin. They splashed into the water with fat _plops._ He... He didn’t even... Okay. He looked back up at Martin, face soft and patient as ever. Jon blinked again.

“I’m... I’m ready.”

“Okay. I’ll submerge it again. Can I use this washcloth too?”

Jon looked at the fabric on the stark white cloth: a bit more textured than he’d hoped. “Just... Gently.”

“I promise. And you’ll tell me if it’s too much?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

Back into the basin. The water was definitely cooling off a bit, but Martin’s hands remained an ever present furnace. One hand he used to guide Jon’s, turning it over or moving it through the water, and the other hand held the tip of the washcloth which he lightly dabbed just a few areas of Jon’s hand that had caught a dark colored dirt or grime in the creases. Martin maneuvered the cloth with such delicacy that he barely felt it cross his skin. In what felt like seconds, his hand was raised once again out of the basin, which Martin moved over and out of the way.

“Can I dry your hand with the back end of the cloth?” Only a corner was dirtied from the greyish-brown grime.

“Yes.” Jon didn’t bother asking for it to be done gently.

Martin dabbed so lightly again, allowing Jon’s hand to mostly air dry while getting rid of the bigger pools of water with the fabric. When Martin finished and tossed the cloth into the basin and out of the way, Jon mused that his hand was probably the cleanest part of his body at the moment.

Martin prepared his next essentials while still tenderly holding Jon’s fingertips, for which Jon was privately grateful. At least the fingernails on _that_ hand were no longer blue. He focused all of his energy on how his blood seemed to be moving through his capillaries in those fingers again. 

“Next, I’ll put on some of that ointment. I promise it won’t burn-- It actually, ah, feels kinda nice,” Martin unscrewed the cap to the yellow-tubed ointment with one hand. “I’ll spread it around with just one of my fingers, and I can do it quickly. Is that okay?”

Jon thought about that warmth seeping into his palm, around the back of his hand, maybe over his knuckles-- “You don’t, uh, have to do it quickly,” Jon blurted, a bit too eagerly. 

Martin stared at him. 

“It’s just...” Jon cringed at himself. “Your hands are... Very warm.”

Something flashed behind Martin’s eyes. “You did mention you were cold.”

“Quite.”

“Well, you’ll tell me if it’s too much, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay.” 

Martin flipped Jon’s hand palm-side up and squeezed a generous amount of the thick, clear ointment into the center. The ointment made a stiff blob on top of Jon’s cool skin, but once Martin’s finger dipped into it, it spread like softened butter. 

Martin’s finger never quite touched Jon’s skin behind the barrier of the ointment, but the warmth was better than he had imagined. It soaked into the lean muscles of his hand, instantly relaxing them. Jon closed his eyes and mentally traced the small circles Martin made while spreading the ointment, allowing himself to forget about the lingering pain and chill in the rest of his body. All sensory input came from the nerve endings firing in his burned hand.

Too quickly, Martin finished with the ointment and began to pull out a fresh roll of bandage. “Can I wrap up your hand?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll start at your wrist and work through some figure-eight patterns, making sure I cover the base of each of your fingers and your thumb. That way the bandage won’t part from use and expose your burn. You might have noticed that’s what happened with your other bandage,” Martin shot him a look that was half scolding and half teasing, which did something strange to Jon’s stomach. “When I’m finished, I’ll wrap it back around your wrist and secure it with one of these clips. Is that alright?”

“Yes.”

“Alright then,” Martin began his work, and Jon relished the combined warmth of his two hands again. Martin had, Jon noted, rather impressive precision as he wrapped each finger in turn, leaving an equal amount of bandage exposed and covered by the next layer. His fingers moved nimbly between and over Jon’s, and he finished with remarkable speed. Almost immediately, Jon’s burns were safe and protected under a wrapping of clean, white gauze which Martin pinned down with a shiny silver clip. The wrapping was layered thick enough to feel durable, but thin enough to feel flexible. Martin finally let go of Jon’s fingers, and Jon felt an unpleasant wash of cold flow over his hand once again.

“There. How does it feel?” Martin asked with a gentle smile. Jon relaxed his hand onto his knees and wiggled his fingers ever so slightly. It felt... Good. Really, really good.

“Um, yes. Good,” Jon cleared his throat. When he looked back up to Martin, he was clearly holding back a beaming smile. Jon had to look away.

He studied the criss-crossed pattern that covered his palm. It was so exact, so secure. Jon briefly wondered why he didn’t let Martin help him more often.

Oh, that’s right. Because he could never give back in equal return.

Slimy guilt crawled through his stomach as he thought of all of the times Martin went out of his way to care for him, and how he either shut him down viciously or failed to show appropriate appreciation for what he was given. And how he never offered anything to Martin. And certainly _couldn’t_ offer the same. Jon swallowed thickly, feeling a bit nauseous at how Martin still gave to him that same, unconditional smile, despite everything. 

“Where... Where did you learn how to do this?”

“Basic wraps? Jon, everyone should know how to do that. You’d be keen to learn, too, since you’ll need to change that in half a day or so.”

“No, I mean... This.”

Martin creased his brow.

“This. Caregiving.”

A sudden cloudiness crossed over Martin’s eyes and he cast them down and away from Jon. His brow was still scrunched together as he sighed quietly.

“Just... Something I’ve had to pick up on over the years. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“...Alright.”

Jon knew. 

“...Yeah.”

Silence.

Jon swallowed thickly again. What was it that Martin had said about control?

“Well, you’re... You’re good at it. Caregiving.”

Martin let out a small huff and met Jon’s eyes with a smile that Jon hadn’t seen before. His lips were closed bashfully, but his eyes crinkled at the corners and the tops of his cheeks flushed to a sweet pink. “Yeah, well...” He didn’t finish the sentence. He just sat looking... Appreciatively at Jon. 

Jon heard a single _thud_ from his heart, and suddenly they both started stammering _Well_ ’s and _Yeah_ ’s and _So_ ’s and looking down at their respective hands. Martin was the first to make a coherent sentence, with “I guess, uh, are you feeling any better?”

“Markedly, actually,” Jon admitted, relieved to have an intelligible answer. He took another look over his body. “The burn feels much better, that’s for sure. I’m still quite... Achy all over, but that’ll take time.”

“Still cold?”

“Only when you’re not touching me.”

Um. 

Wait.

What did he just-- _Why did he just--_

“ _I mean--_ Your _hands_ , they’re-- They’re really warm, and--” Jon stuttered, and risked a peek at Martin’s face, which was definitely all pink, yep, oh god, backpedal--

“Jon,” Martin’s voice was unusually cool, despite the blush that highlighted the freckles across his nose. “You’re welcome to hold my hands, if you want. I know I... Tend to run hot,” Even Martin couldn’t hold back an exasperated chuckle on that last word. “B-but it might, uh, help you feel more comfortable. Safe, even.”

Jon stared at Martin’s hands, unable to meet his gaze, embarrassment sounding a high-pitched ring in his ears.

“...Jon?”

His fingers twitched, and he was promptly aware of the stiff coldness that had seized them again.

“Jon, do you...”

Another full-body shiver sent his ribs and his knees quaking.

“Okay, Jon, can I hold your--”

Jon shot both of his hands into Martin’s, his arms crying out in pain but his hands feeling so very, so _instantly_ warm. He let out a huge sigh, head swinging down and eyes fluttering shut as Martin’s hands delicately gripped his left hand over his palm and his burned hand over his fingers.

“Christ, your hands are cold as the dead’s,” Martin laughed under his breath. Jon responded with a huff in kind.

“Almost were,” Jon joked. 

It did not land. 

If the unmitigated silence was any clue, he could gather that Martin was looking at him with that sadness again.

Martin exhaled forcefully and firmed his grip on Jon slightly. “Well. I’m glad you’re not.”

His words stung in the center of Jon’s chest. His vision went blurry as he felt that familiar prickle at the corner of his eyes. He peered up at Martin through a few loose strands of his long hair that had fallen from his disheveled half bun. Martin’s eyes were equally glassy.

“You _deserve_ to be here, Jon. Alive, here, with me.” Jon felt a particularly icy tear trail down his face. “And... And I can’t predict the future or make any guarantees but I can _promise_ you that I’ll do whatever I can to keep you safe. And God help anyone that tries to get in my way.” Martin attempted an intimidating glare, but it read as more of a pout. His bottom lip jutted out, pink and round against his pale, freckled face. It was... Kind of rather adorable, if Jon was being objectively honest. Still, Jon looked at him reverently, and there was a tightening in his chest that he couldn’t put words to.

“A-and we’re working on getting you comfortable again. So that you don’t have to wear those reminders of what you came from. A-a-and we’re getting you warm. Because you deserve to be warm.”

Jon’s lips cracked into a little smile. He looked down at their hands tied together, basking in the warmth he felt in every square inch of his skin that was covered by Martin’s. Jon’s cool-toned brown skin stood out starkly against the large backdrop of Martin’s pink-toned paleness. Some of Jon’s circular scars were mirrored by Martin’s light brown freckles. Jon silently thought of jigsaw puzzles, for no particular reason.

“Jon, can I.. Can I make a suggestion?” Jon raised a dark eyebrow. Martin sounded a bit sheepish all of a sudden, his voice high and faltering. “So, obviously, feel free to say no to this, but... Maybe I could, uh, give your hands a bit of a massage, kind of? It’ll ease you back into, well, ah, movement. Against your skin. And it’ll, you know, cover more ground, for... Getting you... Warmer.”

Jon went rigid. 

“Feel free to say no--”

“ _No--_ ”

“Okay, totally fine, I respect your--”

“Oh, no, _wait_ , that’s--”

“You’re choice. You’re in control here, and--”

“I meant _yes_ \--”

“You-- Huh?”

“ _No_ to your no-- I mean-- Christ’s sake, _yes you can massage my hands_.” Jon stumbled a bit over his words, suddenly caught a little flustered. His insides churned at the awkward silence that followed.

“...Oh! Okay! Great. Yes.” Martin was back to being a bit pink, but he held a genuine, open smile. “I-I think it’ll help. Make you more comfortable, that is. B-b-but of course you can tell me to stop at any time. And I will.”

“Right.”

“Right. So...”

Martin gave his full attention back to their hands, potentially avoiding Jon’s eyes. All the better, Jon thought. It made him dizzy to see Martin red as a strawberry. For... No particular reason.

Martin began on Jon’s smallest knuckles, the ones right underneath his short, torn fingernails. One after another, Martin rubbed soothing, small circles around the joints, starting at his pinkies and working toward his thumbs. Each revolution pulsed with an unhurried cadence and gradually, his heart beat synced in time. And then his breath synced in time. As Martin moved to new joints further down his hands, Jon became entranced.

The way Martin’s skin swiped over his was _nothing_ like Nikola’s. 

Nikola’s awful, plastic hands were cold and merciless against his body. They were pushy, cruelly strong, and oddly sharp at the tips. They were too fast, too aggressive, too--

_Martin’s_ hands were graceful, gentle, and patient. So large and plush and rounded about the edges, and of course, so exquisitely warm. They were agile and skillful and compassionate; they did charming things like pick at green nail polish and dot his i’s with little hearts and gesticulate wildly when telling a funny story and they were just truly downright lovely, if Jon was going to be blunt. With each glide of Martin’s fingertips across his skin, a sharp prickling of fiery heat was left in its tracks. 

“--your wrist. Is that okay?” 

Oh, had Martin been talking? God, where was his head...

“Hm?”

“I asked if I could move to your wrists. Don’t want to overdo it on your burned hand. Is that alright?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Okay.”

Martin fingers slowly dipped over the heels of his palms and began rubbing those same circles around the pulse points of each of Jon’s wrists, and dear _lord_ Jon’s head was starting to spin. Jon had never been one to entertain the frankly _hokey_ romanticism behind pressure points, but... He could admit that there might be some _heightened sensitivity_ at those points, sure. That’s what it was. Just. Heightened sensitivity.

Martin had long ago turned over his palms to rub on the boniest part of his small wrists, and the quiet murmur of skin grazing skin was swallowed by silence when his hands stilled abruptly. Jon was spat out of his trance and into a very unwelcome reality as he searched Martin’s face for why he dared to stop. Martin’s gaze darted back and forth behind his round glasses which had fallen to the tip of his nose. His lips twitched slightly.

“So... Would you like me to, uh, move to your arms, or--”

“Yes.”

“Oh! Uh, are you sure--”

“Yes.”

“You don’t want me to go back to your hands--”

“No.”

“So. The arms.”

Jon cleared his throat again with a dawning realization of just how quickly he answered the last three questions. 

“Uh, yes, I would... Prefer that. If you would.”

“Of course,” Martin said, quite breathily. There was a sparkling glisten right at his hairline that shimmered with the yellow light from the hall. Jon stared at it as Martin’s hands very gingerly skated up his forearms to tuck his thumbs in Jon’s elbow creases, and his body trembled involuntarily. 

Trembled might actually have been a bit of an understatement.

Jon felt Martin stop moving, and he realized that his eyes had closed. He blinked them twice rapidly, imploring them to stay open until further deliberate instruction, and Martin gave him a wildly bewildered look.

“You must still be freezing?”

Actually, Jon quite felt like his entire body was on fire now.

“...Yep.”

“Geez, I better get to work, then...” Martin furrowed his brow with sincere concern. Well, Jon certainly wasn’t going to stop him.

Martin pressed those gentle circles into the nooks of his elbows and then applied light squeezes and a brush of his thumbs as he slowly worked his hands down the length of Jon’s forearms. Jon might have been feeling marginally warmer, but that intoxicating heat from Martin’s hands was unmatched. It was so rich with life; there was something of a dewiness to them where every light touch felt like dainty kisses on his skin and---

And--

_And_ \-- 

Jon’s eyes flew open -- wait, had he closed them _again?!_ \-- and found himself staring directly into Martin’s striking pale blue eyes. 

There was absolutely no disguising Jon’s fierce deep red blush that stained his cheeks and ears.

Thankfully, he was not the only one threatening to melt the floors like lava.

Martin, with his hands wrapped back around Jon’s elbows, had graduated from flushing a baby pink to a frankly alarming shade of red. His blue eyes were doe-like, looking at Jon with the kind of wonder that one has when they see a clear night of stars for the first time. Stars, not unlike the speckling of freckles across his face.

It had been _way too long_ since either of them had said anything.

“You... Seem... Warmer?” 

Jon could only bring himself to nod once.

“So... D’you want me to stop?”

John shook his head once. 

“...Right.”

Neither of them moved.

Martin took in a steadying breath.

“Where do you want me to--”

“Just... Keep going.” 

“Your arms?”

“Yes, it’s... Uh... It’s nice. Comforting.”

Martin relaxed a bit, the wrinkles on his pale yellow short sleeves smoothed out over top of his shoulders. He chuckled quietly. “That was the goal, wasn’t it?”

“Indeed.”

“Right.”

Wasn’t the goal also to improve his sense of bodily control? Because right now, he is feeling _recklessly_ out of control of his body.

Not that it’s _the same_ , necessarily.

Nor is he really _complaining_ too much about the matter.

...

Comfort was a better goal to begin with anyway.

Martin pushed his glasses back up his nose and began the light squeezes up Jon’s biceps and toward his shoulders, leaving hot brands along the way. Martin worked over top of the long, baggy grey sleeves on Jon’s borrowed shirt, which may or may not have been a bit disappointing. Jon felt himself lean forward toward Martin like a magnet, but he could only reach so far before he collided with his own knees, still huddled up under those threadbare black sweatpants and pulled close to his chest. Martin appeared to be having a similar issue, rolling his shoulders back with a slight wince.

“Uh, Jon?”

“Mm?”

“I’m having a bit of trouble reaching your shoulders.”

“Ah.”

Martin took his hands back, rubbing at his own round, broad shoulders with a grimace. “Didn’t expect this to be quite such a workout.” He tittered. 

Jon made a tight smile, mildly annoyed at the chill that was seeping back into his arms. His useless, baggy sleeves maintained absolutely no warmth. “Right...”

“Well, if you want me to continue--”

“Yes.”

“Okay, well, one of us is going to have to move.”

Jon ran a trial of moving his arms: they were faring much better now for reasons Jon did not need to list. As for his legs: he tried stepping his feet outward, but the way the soles of his shoes caught on the carpet made that entirely too difficult. His knees were not happy with him either; being bent for so long had made them sore and in desperate need of stretching.

“I... Would like to move, but... I may need... Help.” The words were all too unfamiliar on his tongue. He couldn’t help the bristle of shame that pricked his stomach. He self-consciously looked toward that same old ugly carpet as he gathered some of the loose, silver hairs in front of his face and pushed them back behind his ear. He noted how surprisingly silken they felt after weeks of... Well. Conditioning. 

“Jon, you _know_ I’m here to help you.” Martin watched Jon’s hand circle around his ear, and he blinked when his hand fell back onto his knees.

“You’ve said,” Jon stifled a smile.

“You choose how you want to sit, and I’ll move when you tell me to,” Martin almost imperceptibly shook his head as he straightened out his yellow shirt, which was apparently quite fascinating to him.

Back to the matter at hand... Right. The whole _sense of control_ thing. Martin certainly hadn’t forgotten about that little goal. Well, he ought to show some progress by now, shouldn't he?

“I, uh... Can you sit back up against the desk, like you were?”

Martin tucked his legs into his chest, the plaid pattern on his sleep pants stretching over his round knees. He placed his hands on the ground and turned himself until his back hit the desk, a rummaging sound of his pyjama fabric scraping against the carpet. He turned back toward Jon with an expectant look as his legs fell back to their half-butterfly, half-V posture. Jon had forgotten how the light from the doorway caught the orange in his hair from this angle.

“And you?”

“And me... Could-- Could you help me straighten my legs? Not all the way, just enough to stretch them.”

“One foot at a time?”

“Preferably.”

“I’ll take the heel of your shoe in my hands and pull it toward me. Tell me if I’m going too fast?”

“Okay.”

Martin started with his right foot, grasping the heel as he had said. Jon’s ugly old black running shoes were worn and loose and threatened to come off his feet immediately, but Martin was careful. Ever so slowly, he pulled Jon’s leg out, pausing when Jon hissed. One loud _crack_ came from his knee joint before Martin pulled it far enough out to rest on his own legs.

“Next one?”

“Ready.”

Same as before, a few hisses and pops broke the silence until both of his legs were stretched out comfortably over Martin’s with a small bend. He wiggled them slightly, enjoying the relief in his knee caps. Martin turned his head to face him again.

“Okay, where do you want them now?”

“Ah, no, that’s uh... That’s good.”

Martin stared at Jon. Then at both of their legs, piled on top of each other, then back at Jon.

“Actually, could you uh... Could you scoot me a bit closer...” Jon was well aware of the blazing inferno on his cheeks and nose, but he chose to ignore it. He was working on his control goals now, thank you.

“You want me to scoot you closer.”

“Um, yes.”

“To me.”

“Right.”

Martin’s face was completely blank. Deer-in-headlights and all. Unfortunately, that was his problem.

“You can just pull me a bit.”

“Pull you.”

“That’s right.”

A pause.

“Pull you _how_?”

Jon frowned, perhaps getting a bit impatient, “I... I-I don’t know, efficiently? I’m sure it’ll be fine, I trust you.”

Martin took one last look at him, blue eyes flitting across his face. Then, with one swift motion, he looped one arm around the small of Jon’s back, one arm underneath the crook of his knees, and hoisted him up and over Martin’s bent leg until he was sitting perfectly encased in Martin’s lap.

Jon let out a squeak as he gripped the pilling fabric of Martin’s yellow shirt with both of his hands.

And they were very, _very_ close.

Martin still stared at him, face full of red and radiating heat, but with a single raised orange-brown eyebrow.

“Is this what you wanted?” He breathed. 

His breath smelled like his favorite sugar-cube-sweetened green tea, the one that he made for Jon during the first week of his new job before he learned that Jon prefered earl grey. And his pyjamas smelled like that name-brand detergent that Jon bought for him when he moved into document storage, the one that Jon’s clothes end up smelling like if he left them in the archives for a few days. And the collar of his yellow shirt was pulled down by Jon’s hands, revealing a few strawberry-blonde chest hairs that gently prickled against Jon’s fingers, the ones Jon knows he’s self-conscious about because he used to find them in the sink of the archives bathroom. And there was a sheen of sweat against his exposed collarbone that glistened in that yellow light, the light that he had turned on to come find Jon when he heard Jon screaming in pain, when he heard Jon sobbing through the walls and promised to help him, promised to keep him safe, promised to comfort him, promised to keep him warm, promised to respect his choices and ask permission before he touched him, promised to make him feel worthy of care and worthy of help and worthy of _love_ and he _did_ and he _does_ and he _always has_ but never said it allowed until _tonight_ when he turned on that yellow light in the hall--

And his hand was still spread against Jon’s back--

And his arm was still pressed against Jon’s thighs--

And he was _so wonderfully warm_ \--

Jon’s fingers of his expertly bandaged hand brushed Martin’s hot, flushed cheek, and his thumb trailed over his plush bottom lip.

“Almost.”

He felt Martin’s heart beat _pound_ beneath his hand.

“I’d like to kiss you.”

The pupils of Martin’s striking blue eyes blew wide.

“Is that okay?”

Martin’s lips parted as his gaze flickered back and forth between Jon’s eyes and Jon’s lips. He wetted his own reflexively. 

“Okay,” He whispered, breath sweet.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

Jon guided him down with his bandaged hand and pressed his lips onto Martin’s.

And then he parted them slightly, slotting them perfectly together.

Martin wrapped his arms completely around him, enveloping him in the warmest embrace Jonathan Sims had ever felt, as he slid his silky and moistened lips over and across and inside Jon’s. Jon chased after him, sucking gently on his top lip, nibbling quickly on his bottom. Martin’s breath was hot and ragged and sugar-cube-sweet against his mouth, and Jon drank it in hungrily, flicking his tongue briefly onto Martin’s cupid’s bow or the plump center of his bottom lip. Small rasps escaped from Martin each time. 

“ _Jon--_ ” Martin broke briefly, gasping in air.

“ _Why_ did you stop?” Jon whined.

“I just wanted to know if I could run my hand through your hair.”

“ _Oh,_ oh _,_ yes that’s fine.”

Martin immediately dove back in, catching the corner of Jon’s mouth with his tongue as the warm, large hand on Jon’s back skated up towards his neck and settled at the base of his skull, twirling his thick, long, salt-and-pepper waves between his fingers. It was _magical_.

Jon attempted to stifle a groan (unsuccessfully) as he liquified in Martin’s touch, hanging on by Martin’s lips for dear life. He pressed short, wet kisses onto Martin’s top lip in rhythm with the twists Martin made in his hair. His toes curled against the mesh of his old sneakers.

“ _Jon--_ ” Martin pulled back again in the middle of a particularly nice kiss.

“ _Jesus_ , Martin, _yes?”_

“ _Can I put my hand on your waist--”_

“ _Yes, yes, that’s fine--”_

Jon wrapped his lips around Martin’s again as Martin lifted his arms from beneath Jon’s knees and cupped the side of his waist, so gently brushing his thumb over the bottom of his rib cage. His hand was big enough to sweep over three or four ribs, and it was _so_ warm over top of that stupid, ratty, gray T-shirt that is really just in the _way_ \--

He released Martin’s collar and yanked his own T-shirt out from underneath Martin’s grasp on his waist. He swore he could almost hear his skin _sizzle_ on direct contact, and it was _heavenly_.

Martin made a surprised “Mmh!” beneath Jon’s lips, and Jon once again pulled on his soft, yellow collar to tug him closer.

Jon steadily sucked on Martin’s bottom lip, studying the pattern of Martin’s tongue dashing over his cupid’s bow, trying to time it just right to catch Martin’s tongue with the tip of his own. On the first two tries, he was just barely too late, but on the third, he timed it just right. The squeeze Martin gave to his waist when their tongues skated over each other was _well_ worth the trial and error.

“ _Jon--”_

“Martin, _I swear to god--_ ”

“I just--”

“ _Yes, yes, you can do whatever it is,_ I’m sure it’s _fine_ , I hereby give you _official permission_ to do the things you want to do, just keep it above the belt _and get back down here before I--”_

“No, _Jon_ , I just wanted to say that-- That I’m happy I found you.”

Jon stilled. He stared back at him.

“Tonight, I mean. I’m... I know you’ve gone through something horrible, but... I just wanted to tell you I’m glad you made it. And I’m glad you’re here. And I’m happy I found you here.” 

Martin’s face was so full of bashful joy. His cheeks were ruddy, and his lips were slick and plump from kissing, and his golden-orange waves were a little damp and sticking to his forehead, and there were comically big smudges on his round glasses, and he just looked so _Martin_ in his purest and best form. And he looked at Jon with those gorgeous blue eyes like he was looking at the first budding tulips of spring or the horizon of a beautiful ocean sunset or a person that you adore more than anything in the world. 

Jon tried to reply, but he choked on his words.

Martin smiled widely, slightly crooked teeth finally bared for all to see. His smile was breathtaking.

Martin rubbed his nose against Jon’s, still toothy-smiling, and then pressed the softest, closed-mouthed kiss to Jon’s lips. Jon’s eyes fluttered closed and open. 

“I just wanted you to know that.”

Jon’s heart burst almost painfully in his chest. He tried to speak, but _god_ it was so hard to speak, _why_ is it so hard to speak, just _say something_ \--

“I’m-- I--”

_Say something,--_ He just has to _move_ his lips _, work his voice--_

“Martin, I--”

“Jon, it’s okay, you don’t have to--”

“ _No_ , Martin, listen, I--”

Jon exhaled with a frustrated growl, shaking his head. He gripped Martin’s shirt again, steeling himself, and inhaled slowly.

“Martin, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to explain to you how much I appreciate you and care for you as a person. Just know that it’s far more than anything I can show you, and it’s _certainly_ far more than anything I can tell you. So, so, _so_ much more.”

Jon nodded his head once, moderately satisfied. He looked up at Martin--

Tears were streaking his cheeks and his smile was quivering uncontrollably.

“Oh, Martin, _shit_ , I’m sorry, I--”

“Jon, I _really_ don’t know why you’re apologizing right now.”

“No, I just-- I’m just not as good at... You’re a much better comforter than _me_ , let’s just say--”

“I have all the comfort I could ever need right here.” His eyes were still spilling over with tears but he laughed such joyful laughter.

Jon couldn’t stop a wide grin from spreading over his face, and he lunged into Martin’s arms, pulling him in as tightly as his still-achy muscles would allow. Martin wrapped him up in his arms, cradling him preciously.

“...I think I love you, Jon.”

“I... I think I love you, too.”

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
